


An Unconventional Conclusion

by Bold_as_Brass



Series: An Unconventional Affair [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blindfolds, Identity Porn, M/M, Massage, Post Reichenbach, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-23
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 05:48:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bold_as_Brass/pseuds/Bold_as_Brass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A tall, dark stranger makes John an offer he can't refuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

London sweltered under a low grey sky with the damp heat of a city lying at sea level. No breeze could breach the long canyons of office buildings and their inhabitants sweltered too, trapped on an urban heat island twenty five miles across.

John couldn’t settle. He’d thrived in the dry heat of Afghanistan but this muggy weather drove him to distraction. He paced the floor of his tiny, uninsulated flat for hours before flinging out of the door on the hunt for diversion.

It had been years since he’d been to this part of London, south of the river, underneath the Vauxhall arches. He remembered it being rawer, smoky pubs and guys in jeans and T-shirts disappearing over a wooded bank into the local park at the end of the night. Now everywhere was polished and slick, full of hi- energy music, shiny surfaces and neon-coloured drinks. He'd wanted somewhere low key with a decent list of beers where he could perhaps have a chat then pop out the back. Instead he’d ended up in a bar emptier than the rest by virtue of being more than a tenner to get in, standing by the speakers, and holding a plastic bottle of lukewarm water. One of the barman kept darting him doubtful glances, probably never had a punter over forty before. Other than that no one gave him a second look. It was a young clubby crowd. They didn’t interest him; he certainly didn’t interest them. He didn’t even know what he was doing here. He should go home.

The barman eyed him, apparently thinking the same thing.

“Yeah, all right,” he said and drained his drink, “I’m on my way.”

“You John Watson?” shouted the barman.

“Who’s asking?” John said.

The barman gave a quick nod as though something had been confirmed. “Got something for you,” he said and handed John a white envelope from beneath the counter. He felt his stomach lurch: please not breadcrumbs, but inside was just a plastic key card emblazoned with a design he didn’t recognise. No message or other token. The envelope was of thick, laid paper a well-known stationery brand found at every bookseller’s in the country. He doubted if a full forensic examination would yield anything more revealing. He showed the card to the barman questioningly.

“New development up by the river,” yelled the barman. He jerked his chin in the general direction.

“Who gave you this?” said John.

The barman cupped his ear.

“I said who gave you this?” but the barman just shrugged, turned up the music to a teeth-shaking level and began flipping bottles like Tom Cruise back in the 80s to appreciative whoops and cheers from the floor. John watched for a moment, then walked out, ears ringing.

Mycroft or someone who wants to kill me, he decided as he battled his way past the group of smokers clustered around the exit. He thought back to their last meeting; those two categories might not be mutually exclusive. He pulled out his phone. “What do you want?” he said but it sat mute in his hand, as it had for the last nine months. No coy messages, no black Jaguars. Life had entered a new routine, satisfactory if a little colourless. Regular locum shifts at different surgeries, rugby training two nights a week and a succession of semi-serious girlfriends. No one at the moment though; no one for the last few months. His skin itched. Sweat trickled down his back and beaded on his upper lip. Almost ten and still so humid.

Not going to do it, he thought turning the card in his pocket. Not going to do it, but it might be good to walk across the river, work off some of this excess energy before plunging back into the overheated bowels of the tube. It wasn't that bad a night. Even the lowering sky couldn’t hide the long lingering twilight of a June evening.

Men drifted down the street, some hand in hand. He forged his way upstream towards the Thames. The red, gold and grey carnival arches of Vauxhall bridge were already in sight when he noticed the tall glass and steel building to his side. A new development, its arches and swells reminiscent of a ship at sail. The design etched onto the glass doors looked familiar. He took out the card to check; no mistaking it.

“Balls," he said and looked up and down the street. There were the usual tourists and evening revellers, a few business types working late. No shadowy figures, no bright points of laser light, nothing to cause concern. He looked back at the doors. Behind them he could see the dim outline of a large, deserted foyer, decorated in the standard manner of expensive modern apartment blocks the world over: angular chairs, nubbly paintings, geometric patterns on circular rugs.

It was a bit different from his current place.

It was a lot different from Baker Street.

It was the most interesting thing that had happened to him for months.

He looked for a place to swipe the card. The gleaming walls were devoid of anything as mundane as a card reader. The doors lacked even handles. There was a low silver post to one side though, stamped with a familiar design. On impulse he placed the card against it. Nothing happened. He frowned, turned it over and tried again. Still nothing. He pushed experimentally against the glass. The doors didn’t budge but high on the ceiling of the foyer, a red dot began to flash.

Ok, he could take a hint. He walked away. River, tube, home, bed.

Deep in his back pocket his phone buzzed, making him jump. Number withheld. Of course it was.

_Around the side._

Around the side was a deserted courtyard of severely planted trees, their leaves uplit by twinkling golden lights. Another silver post stood flush against the wall alongside a bank of plain white doors. He touched the card to it. The wind whispered in the leaves; the doors remained stubbornly shut. He checked his phone: nothing. “Sod you then,” he said and turned away. He was halfway across the courtyard when a faint sigh interrupted him. The doors had swung open.

Inside was cool and quiet. The soft whisper of air conditioning was the only sound. A single lift at the end of a corridor waited for him. He stepped inside and rose in silence, watching the floor indicators blink on and off. At fifteen they stopped and he found himself in another hushed corridor, the unmarked door opposite him slightly ajar.

“Hello?” he called as he entered. A serviced apartment, anonymous as they came, decked out in twenty-first century bland. The first room was an open plan kitchen and living room, space age appliances and cream upholstery scattered with clashing cushions. To the end of the hallway, a golden glow outlined the shape of a second door. He pushed it open and stepped inside.

The bedroom, a thick grey carpet underfoot, the walls a neutral shade of taupe, a large bed made up with white linen and plump square pillows. A single bedside lamp cast a low pool of amber light but the room was a mere backdrop to the view, floor to ceiling windows looking out over the Thames and the North London skyline.

In one corner, almost hidden in the shadows, sat a waiting figure, backlit, its face obscured in darkness. “Do come in,” it said. A man’s voice: deep, cultured, almost familiar.

“Right,” said John. He hesitated a moment longer but London drew him onwards.

Far below on Vauxhall Bridge car headlights twinkled but at this height they moved silently. The river rolled beneath, orange streetlights shining on the water. Downriver he could just make out the last of the sunset reflecting crimson and gold on the glass pods of the London Eye. To the west, the four white towers of Battersea Power Station were silhouetted against the sky.

“Nice gaff,” he said. A view like this would cost millions.

“It’s close to the office,” said his host, a trifle whimsically. He was holding a glass of dark liquid, John saw. The streetlights illuminated a long-fingered hand and burnished the edge of an expensive wrist watch a dim gold.

“Huh.” If he craned his neck he could just make out the black and white Bablylonian edifice of MI6. “And what am doing here?”

“Ah,” he thought he detected an undercurrent of laughter at his directness. “Well. I find myself in need of something. I believe you are too.”

John didn’t bother asking what. The silent, waiting bed made it quite clear. “I might be up for it,” he admitted, watching a party boat of bright young things slide beneath the bridge arches. It was why he was out, after all. And he hadn’t had any better offers.

“I'm glad to hear it. I would however prefer to proceed without _emotions_ clouding the matter.” The word was imbued with a weary distaste.

“Right,” said John, uncertainly. He darted a glance towards the chair. It was only a few meters away but angled so he could make out very little of the person who sat within it. Tall, he thought and wearing a dark suit.

“Therefore I have a proposal for you.”

John felt his stomach drop. “What kind of proposal?”

“I wish to pay for your time.”


	2. Chapter 2

Right. Well. He hadn’t expected that. “You want me to whore for you?”

“In a word. Yes.”

“Money for sex?” he said, just to be absolutely sure.

“Quite.” The voice was slightly exasperated now, disliking repetition.

John stared out into the night and thought about it. He’d never been offered payment for services before. He wasn’t sure whether to be insulted at the implication he could be bought or flattered that someone thought he were worth paying for. “Well how much?”

“Usually I believe that would be for you to determine.”

“Meaning?”

“Name your price.”

He peered through the dimness trying to make out an expression, some distinguishing feature that would confirm identity and reveal intent. A beaky nose, surely? A mobile mouth? It was impossible to be sure.

It must be Mycroft though, he thought, no one else would bother coming up with something this convoluted. By rights I should sock him in the jaw for impugning my virtue and leave, and he's a cheeky bugger for even trying it on after last time. But then perhaps that was the reason for all the cloak and dagger. Down at sea level there was death, anger and festering resentment between them. Up here, fifteen stories high, floating free they could choose to be something else if they wanted. A soldier and a spy; a hitman and his mark; a hooker and his customer. Two middle-aged men searching for solace.

“Who are you?” he said feeling out the parameters of the situation.

“A putative client.”

“Have we met before?”

The note of laughter again. “I’d hope you’d remember if we had.”

So that’s how it was. He’d played this game with girlfriends: pretending to be strangers in a bar, being picked up and taken home for what was often pretty explosive sex. Acting wasn’t his forte but no one cared once the clothes came off.

“Well then, I’m John,” he said. “Hello.” He nodded in the chair’s general direction.

“Hello John.” Was it his imagination or had the voice deepened, the accent shifted? ”Are you working tonight?”

He thought about it. Did he want to play the whore? It felt dirty; a bit dangerous. Was he working tonight? “Yeah,” he said. Why not?

“Excellent. How much?”

“A hundred an hour.” It was a nice round number.

“That’s cheap for London.”

He shrugged and made a show of looking around at the room then back at the view. “If you‘d wanted classy,” he said, “I’m sure there’s lots of discreet company you could have called. You’ve picked someone random up off the street-”

“There was nothing random in your selection I assure you.”

“Off the street,” John insisted. If he were playing the whore, he was damn well going to choose the kind of whore he played. “Someone a bit cheap; a bit rough around the edges.”

“Now there,” the voice conceded, “you may have a point.”

“Besides which, you haven’t asked what I’m offering.”

There was a pause. John received the distinct impression the conversation had taken a direction his putative client hadn’t been expecting.

“What are you offering?”

“No mouth kissing,” he said. “You get a massage. Oral with a condom. And a happy ending.”

“I see,” the chair creaked as its occupant shifted, apparently trying to see his expression. “And do you get much trade with those restrictions?”

“I do all right,” he said and then on the kind of impulse that had got him into trouble more than once. “Or you can pay a grand and get the full porn star experience.”

Another more startled pause. “What’s the full porn star experience?”

Now you’re asking, he thought. “Er. It’s a surprise.”

“I’m not a huge fan of surprises. Especially when I’m paying a thousand pounds for them.”

“It will be worth your while,” he said and stuck his thumbs into his belt loops, not coincidentally pulling his jeans tight across his crotch. “I can go five times a night.” More like three and a half these days in truth but it probably wasn’t the time for searing honesty.

There was a spate of coughing from the chair, rather as though its occupant had choked on a mouthful of expensive whisky. He waited, feeling a smile play around the corners of his mouth.

“That might be a little energetic for my tastes,” said the voice eventually, rather husky now. “Do you offer anything else?”

“I’m not a bloody Chinese takeaway, you know,” he said. “What were you thinking?”

“I was hoping for something more...” the voice dropped, became intimate, “sensual.”

Oh, he thought, _hello_. That sounded all right. “Well then,” he said getting into the swing of it, “you’ll be wanting the boyfriend experience.”

“Which is…?”

“Like the porn star experience but less bouncing, more massage.”

“How much?”

“Still a grand. Time is money.”

“That’s very steep.”

“Are you haggling with me?” he said, faintly insulted even though it was only a game. “You can try someone else if you like. You won’t find any better.”

“For a thousand pounds,” the glass was placed on a side table with a decisive click. “I would expect you to cater to my every whim. Gratify my every desire.”

I bet you would, he thought. “For a thousand pounds,” he said, and smouldered at his reflection for good measure, “I’m yours for the night.”

“Mm,” a drumming of fingers on the chair arm. “I see.”

“But I’m still not kissing you on the mouth, you’re still going to have to wear condoms and I want the money up-front.”

“You’re a terribly bossy whore,” complained the client, mildly.

“Sex worker,” said John and folded his arms.

 

* * *

 

Leaning against the bathroom door, staring at the roll of fifty pound notes in his hand he had a moment where he wondered if he’d promised more than he could deliver. Still they didn’t call him 'three-continents' for nothing. He stuck the money in his pocket and stripped off and jumped in the shower before he could have second thoughts. The water was tepid, delicious on his skin after the damp heat and grime of the city air. A new bar of expensive-smelling soap awaited him. He took the hint and lathered up, then sluiced off thoroughly and towelled dry, moving fast in to keep the butterflies at bay.

By the sink, waited a toothbrush and paste each in their own wrapper. He brushed his teeth obediently. No razor, so he wasn’t expected to shave, no other toiletries of any kind but he had a hunch that the bedside table would be extremely well stocked. Spruced up as far as possible, he leant on the counter and examined himself critically in the mirror. He’d been trying the last few months: eating more healthily, working out, drinking less. He looked ok, bit greyer around the temples perhaps, but he didn’t think he was anyone’s idea of a high class escort.

“Just as well you’ve got a sparkling personality,” he said to his reflection. Reflection John looked dubious so he slung a towel round his hips and, with a swagger he didn’t really feel, flung open the door and stepped out into the bedroom before he could lose his nerve entirely.

The room was in darkness. The one lamp had been dimmed. The streetlights casting shadows across the ceiling were the only illumination.

The voice came from its usual corner. “Lose the towel.”

He frowned. That didn’t sound like a very Mycroft thing to say. A worm of disquiet crawled beneath his skin. It is him isn’t it? he thought. Because it’s going to be bloody embarrassing if this is a case of mistaken identity.

“If you please,” added the voice, mistaking his hesitation for annoyance. A memory stirred. _If you please John, have a seat_ , said Mycroft in the living room at Baker Street, a lifetime ago. Reassured he let the towel fall to the floor and stood there in all his glory, the chill of the air conditioning raising goose bumps on his damp skin.

“Go to the bed.”

He walked forward cautiously hoping he didn’t stub his toe and spoil the show.

“On the pillow.”

On the pillow was something black, scanty and involving a great deal of elastic. Bugger me, he thought picking it up, a posing pouch - that is not a good look, but when he unrolled it, it turned out to be a sleep mask, the fabric soft, velvety and dense in his hands.

“Put it on.”

He obeyed, fumbling a little. It fitted smoothly across his face, submerging him in darkness.

“Now lie down.”

The bed swam into being beneath his reaching hands. He stretched out carefully across the cool, smooth linen and waited. Sound became suddenly amplified. He could hear the tiny liquid click of his eyelids as he blinked, the thrum of blood in his ears, the distant call of sirens far below.

A golden glow creeping around the edges of the mask revealed that someone had switched on a light. Someone who wanted to see and not be seen. He grinned despite his nerves. Some things never changed.

The mattress dipped. There was a warm waft of aftershave; unidentifiable but tantalisingly familiar. He knew without being able to see that someone was leaning over him, the awareness stirring the small hairs on his neck. Sure enough, a fingertip touched the corner of his mouth, the creases at the corner of his eye where he smiled.

“Am I amusing you, Doctor Watson?”

“I never told you my full name,” he said. "Nor that I was a doctor."

“No you didn’t, did you?” A thumb traced his lower lip. “A basic error on my part. That’s not like me.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, M-“ he said but a finger pressed across his mouth, silencing him.

“I would prefer for you to think of me as your client. Nothing more personal.”

He nodded his understanding. Just a client. An anonymous body he was being paid to service, to pleasure. That worked for him. That was working for him already in fact, he thought as he felt his dick begin to lift and fill. Well, stark bollock naked on an unfamiliar bed wearing only a blindfold probably wasn’t the time to start being shy. He tilted his hips, signalling interest.

“Oh you’re very responsive to suggestion aren’t you? I can see why you charge so much.”

A hand stroked across throat and down his chest, accompanied by the cool touch of a silk cuff; his client had taken the opportunity to slip into something more comfortable while he'd been in the shower. Dressing gown or smoking jacket? Smoking jacket most probably, he decided. Quilted, in burgundy or British racing green.

“Worth every penny,” he said stoutly.

“I look forward to getting my money’s worth. Where do you suggest we begin?"

 


	3. Chapter 3

He thought about it while the hand meandered downwards, moving slowly but with obvious intent. He’d offered a boyfriend experience, whatever that meant, something sensual and lasting the entire night apparently. Better start to draw things out before they became – a thumb dipped into his navel setting off a ripple of pleasant sensation– too heated too soon. Besides which, a little agreeable anticipation never hurt anyone.

He caught the hand just as it dipped to cup between his thighs, restraining it between his palms. “First of all, why don’t you tell me about your day?”

Fingers twitched beneath his, a trifle irritable at being thwarted. “Why?”

“That’s what good boyfriends do, isn’t it?” he said and cupping the captured hand began slowly circling his thumb along a long knuckly finger. “They ask about your day. They take an interest.”

“Is it?”

“So I’m told.” When he reached the fingertip, he squeezed the nail for an instant then moved on to the next finger. The skin beneath his was smooth, the nails carefully rounded; his client was clearly a fastidious sort.

“I see.”

“You don’t have to say anything incriminating. You can make something up if you like,” he said and turned his attention to the palm held in his, making little circular strokes from the base of the fingers up to the wrist. He’d never met anyone who didn’t like having their palm massaged.

“Well,” there was a rustle of silk and linen as the client settled himself more comfortably, apparently he was no exception. “Needless to say, it was immeasurably glamorous. In the morning I traced a gang of international jewel thieves to their base in Myanmar. There was a brief but thrilling duel around the whispering gallery at St Paul’s Cathedral during lunch and a useful afternoon with the Cheltenham contingent making some real progress on Linear A.”

“Good work,” said John. He was working on the fleshy part of the thumb now giving it the majority of his attention. It didn’t matter what he said really; he was just providing a soothing background sound. It was a trick most doctors learnt.

“Thank you,” there was a snort of dry amusement. “Of course my cover story is a little more prosaic.”

“Which is?”

“Due to the genius of a management consultant barely out of short trousers we unwittingly retired the only person who understands the ventilation system of one of our more venerable buildings late last week.”

“Not good in this weather,” said John, He finished the massage by making slow circles over fine skin where the hand joined the wrist, resisting the impulse to check the pulse while he did it.

“No.” Without having to ask he was given the other hand to work on. “I was forced to spend the entire morning tracking him down to a caravan site in Colwyn Bay.”

“Good job they had you there to help.”

“Yes,” said the client, completely without irony. “I was then dispatched to Wales in order to offer him an obscene amount of money to return.”

“That would be the cover for while you were really duelling.”

“Quite.”

“Did he accept the money?”

“Eventually.”

“He’ll be able to buy a new caravan.”

“He’ll be able to buy the entire site.”

John stopped massaging. “Would it not be cheaper just to put in a new system?”

A rather frosty sniff greeted this suggestion. “There is nothing wrong with the current system. It's the original Victorian and a magnificent example of its kind. It simply requires a little extra care and attention on occasion.”

“Oh,” said John. That told him. He returned his attention to his work, spreading the palm open beneath his fingers. “Still you sorted it all out.”

“Yes but it’s hardly what I’m employed to do.”

“Heads will roll.”

“They already have.”

Probably metaphorically, John decided. “And then in the afternoon?”

“Meetings. Always meetings.”

“Right,” said John. Massage completed he lifted the hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle in turn; possibly pandering to someone’s sense of superiority there, but what the hell, he was being paid. The effect was immediate and electric: a sharpening of attention he could feel even through the blindfold. “Sounds like a pig of a day,” he said. “Why don’t you take this off,” he tugged at the cuff of the robe, “and I’ll give you a nice relaxing back rub? Make you feel better.”

“I think I’d like that.”

I think you would too, he thought. “That’s good. Do you have any-” there was the soft whisper of silk falling to the floor followed by the opening and closing of a drawer, “oil?”

A bottle was placed in his hand; baby oil by its shape. He had a sniff and was hit by a wave of nostalgic lust for some of his previous girlfriends. It didn’t go unnoticed.

“You enjoy this job.”

“Course I do,” he said and rubbed the oil between his palms, warming it. “Why wouldn’t I?” On impulse he streaked his hand across his body, leaving behind an oily trail behind which he rubbed into his skin. He didn’t think he imagined the appreciative intake of breath that greeted his little display.

“How do you want me, Doctor?” The tone was unmistakably suggestive.

“On your front,” he said. “Arms by your sides.”

The bed creaked with gratifying speed. He groped about until he found the body lying next to him and straddled himself across its hips, feeling a little like a jockey crouched atop  a thoroughbred. The client was still wearing a pair of thin cotton trousers, the fabric scratchy soft beneath his thighs. The unexpected coyness made him grin; they did little to conceal the smooth round haunches beneath.

“Any skin problems, joint problems, muscle problems I should know about?” he said and poured out a little more oil of the oil, cupping it in his hands to let it warm.

“A little tightness in the right shoulder.”

“Dueling someone will do that.”

”Indeed.”

He began with broad open strokes, slicking skin with oil using the time to assess the shape and condition of the body it covered. The right shoulder was indeed tight and knotted. He spent some time working around each of the trapezoids, one thumb following another with increasing pressure, feeling the skin beneath his hands warming to his touch as the muscles loosened and opened.

“How does that feel?”

The only response was a contented rumbling.

Blindfolded he was freed to explore, learning the body beneath him by touch. It was a landscape of contrasts. Hard shoulders and sharp edge of of scapula. The soft fuzz of hair under the armpits was unexpected; his girlfriend’s usually shaved . He lingered there for a while, keeping his touch firm. Probably had a good crop of hair on his chest and belly too. That thought pleased him; the human animal beneath the sleek suits. He wondered how it would feel rubbing over his skin. Down the back, a long spine, a hard cage of ribs protecting the vital organs, softer around the waist rising up to the top of the hips where a thin barrier of cotton halted him. He worked his thumbs there for a while teasing back and forth along the line of the waistband before beginning a long slow slide up both sides of the vertebrae riding up the muscles all the way to the neck, drawing out a flattering groan of appreciation.

“Turn over,” he said, and I’ll do your front if you like.”

The client stretched luxuriously beneath him. “I want your mouth on me,” he said with the kind of lazy assurance that would normally have set John’s teeth on edge but at this precise moment provoked a ripple of rather more pleasant sensation.

“And you’ll get it,” he said and pressed his thighs against the flanks of his mount. “No need to rush things though, eh?”

“Mm,” the client rolled beneath him. “Perhaps you have a point.” A warm hand found his dick with unerring precision; touching him with evident fascination. John let him play, far be it from him to discourage so laudatory an interest, until his skin was damp with sweat and his eyes were starting to roll backwards.

“I’ll come if you keep doing that,” he said eventually as a finger teased slow, torturously slow, around the swollen sensitive head of his dick for the tenth? twentieth? hundredth? time.

“Your mouth then,” the hand was removed and replaced around John’s neck, guiding him downwards.

Who’s bossy now, he thought but bent his head willingly enough, expecting to find soft hair tickling his nose. The skin that brushed against his lips though was warm and smooth, almost as hairless as his own chest. He felt a pang of disappointment, quickly buried. Smooth was better for licking anyhow. He kissed along a collar bone pressing his lips for a moment to the strong pulse at the neck then diverted daringly to find a smooth flat nipple, sucking it into a tight little peak.

“Oh yes, very good.”

Emboldened he narrowed the tip of his tongue and flicked it against the nipple’s tip. Showboating really but it would look good and his client was a man who liked to watch. Think about how that’s going to feel on your cock he though before giving the other nipple the same attention. By the restless stirring of the client’s hips beneath him, he already was.

“Trousers off?” John suggested.

“I think so.”

About time too, he thought shifting to one side as the bed creaked. When the mattress dipped once more he reached out eagerly finding a long thigh and running his hand up it, looking to do some prick teasing of his own.

His wrist was caught before he could begin. “No.”

“Why not?” he said annoyed at being foiled. The gibe about having to be coaxed to touch another mans’ cock had stung more than he liked to admit.

“Your hands are oily.”

“What?”

“Your hands are oily, John.”

“Yeah?” his whole body was oily. And hot. And pretty damn wound up. He either wanted to come, or to make someone come and then come. It didn’t seem a lot to ask.

A sigh. “The condoms were your stipulation.”

”Oh.” Condoms, oil, yeah. Balls.

“Besides which,” a little gentler, “I hardly need any further stimulation.” A thumb brushed across his mouth. He had the sudden certain sensation that he was about to be kissed and opened his mouth to protest or perhaps reciprocate but no kiss came. He was starting to regret these self-imposed restrictions.

“Orange flavour,” he said. “For preference.”

There was the sound of someone rummaging through an open drawer. “No. Mint or blueberry?”

He shrugged. “Mint then. You better put it on.”

“I think I can manage that.” Slightly haughty. Some rustling followed by a rather doubtful silence.

He cocked his head. “Alright?”

“I’m not sure. I now have a bright green knob."

John got the giggles at that, rolling onto his back and shaking with mirth until he ran out of breath and was reduced to high pitched squeaks. After a second the client joined in with a low, deep chuckle that shook the bed.

"It's a little offputting," he protested, which sent John off again, laughing until his stomach ached.

“Come here then Mr Spearmint,” John said when he’d recovered enough to speak. “Let’s be having you.” He crawled across the bed until he found an ankle, which he kissed, a knee which he caressed, a thigh. He’s a much better actor than I gave him credit for, he thought, still smiling as he walked his fingers slowly upwards. That didn’t sound like something Mycroft would say at all.

It really hadn’t.

Course it is though. Who else has my number? Who else knows me so well? Who else but Mycroft could talk me into a daft stunt like this – blindfolds, secret identities?

A trickle of ice ran down his back. The laughter died on his lips.

“John?” said the client but he paid no attention. Beneath the blindfold facts, images and inconsistencies whirled before his eyes. The smooth chest, when Mycroft’s forearms had hinted at a dense covering of hair. The touch of a silk smoking jacket which could just as easily be a dressing gown. The momentary glimpse of a wrist watch when Mycroft was never without his fob and chain. The unexpected turns of phrase.

A thousand unrelated signs coalesced into a single crystalline certainty.

“Christ,” he said, and ripped away the mask. “Sherlock?”


	4. Chapter 4

Time froze. Uncounted seconds ticked past and neither of them moved. Then with a yelp and an ungainly scramble of legs the client disappeared beneath the bed covers like a hermit crab into his shell.

“You’re smooth,” John said dumbly. “Why are you smooth?  Do you wax your chest?”

Mycroft sniffed and drew the duvet up to his chin. He was far from his usual immaculate self. His hair was in disarray, his face was shiny with sweat and pink blotches mottled the sliver of neck peaking from beneath the covers.

Crap, John thought. I’ve just called my client by the name of his dead brother. This is worse than that time I called Jeanette Sarah. “Right,” he said. “Um, you wax your chest. No that’s ok. That’s fine. Yeah. I just didn’t expect you to be so-”

“You should leave.”

“-smooth.” Though of course, Mycroft’s neatly kept hands might have been a clue. And his pedicured feet. Not to mention the impeccably styled suits. He was a man who above all liked to be well turned out, especially when entertaining company.

Shit.

He looked over the side of the bed with a sinking heart. A crumpled silk jacket lay carelessly tossed onto the carpet. Racing green. He’d been right first time. It had all been an act, a game, a harmless sexual fantasy.

Double shit.

“I’m sorry,” he said and rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know what happened there. I think part of me still doesn’t believe he’s dead, you know? They wouldn’t let me see the body and sometimes I get this feeling someone’s watching me and then what with the blindfold I just…”

“You should leave,” said Mycroft crisply, “ _now_.”

“Yeah ok. Look I’ll turn the light off and get my...” He was gabbling now; barely able to get away fast enough, bolting into the sanctuary of the bathroom as though the Hound of Baskerville was after him.

“Well you ballsed that one up good and proper,” he said to reflection John as he leant against the door, heart pounding. Reflection John looked as though he agreed.

He pulled on his clothes and checked the time on his phone. If he hurried he’d make the last train from Vauxhall, change at Victoria and get the bus. Ok. He straightened his jacket, nodded. All he needed to do was get out of the flat and he’d be home safe.

“Fuck,” he said and sat back down with a bump on the closed toilet seat. A sodding blindfold. It wasn’t as though there was anything Mycroft had needed to hide. The body sprawled beneath his had been a little broad across the beam perhaps, a little soft around the belly but long legged and generously freckled. Not a man in the first flush of youth by any means, but undoubtedly a magnificent example of his kind.  And a verdant and flourishing green in certain key areas.

Well, hiding in here wasn’t going to improve matters.

“Come on,” he told himself and put his chin up and went to face the music.

The room appeared deserted. Only a long lump of duvet in the centre of the bed gave any indication it was still occupied.

“Mycroft,” he said to it. ”Are you going to come out? We need to have a chat.”

There was no reply. He hadn’t really expected one.

He sighed and pinched the top of his nose. “Look,” he said, “I know I said I blame you for Sherlock’s death at the Diogenes Club and if I’m honest I do. But. I also blame myself and I blame Moriarty and Anderson and Donovan and Lestrade and some days I even blame Mrs Hudson. And I blame Sherlock too. So there it is. He was your brother and I know you cared about him and I’m sorry I said it.”

Silence was the only response. He put the roll of fifties on the bedside table and by it the key card.

“Ok,” he said. “I’m off now then.”

He’d made it as far as the front door when unbidden; the memory of Mycroft’s pale face swam into his mind. He hadn’t looked shocked; he’d looked stricken.

“Bollocks,” he said and rested his forehead against the cool wood of the doorframe. There was something else he needed to say. He didn’t really want to, but while he was many things he hoped he’d never been a coward. He turned around and marched  himself back into bedroom. It was just as he’d left it. It occurred to him that Mycroft might have left while he was in the bathroom. The roll in the centre of the bed could just be wadded up duvet. Pretending it was might make this easier.

“Mycroft,” he said and scrubbed at his face. “Mycroft. Look. Whatever’s gone on between us, I think you should know I have never wanted you to _be_ Sherlock. You know. Having sex. I have never once pretended you were Sherlock,” he paused, “or anyone else for that matter.” It was true he realised; the reality had been more engrossing than any fantasy.  “For what that’s worth.”

There. He’d said it. “I’ll shut the door on the way out.”

He’d almost reached the bedroom door when the roll unrolled itself. “Turn the light on,” it said.

John obeyed.

Mycroft emerged blinking from his refuge, sat up and examined him steadily. John wasn’t sure what he was looking for but it took him a while to find. Eventually he appeared satisfied. “Very well. You may turn it off.”

He plunged them back into dimness and stood feeling rather foolish, waiting for a verdict.

“I am not,” Mycroft announced, “going to come out.”

“All right.”

“You may, however, come under.” The corner of the duvet closest to him flipped upwards, apparently of its own volition.

“Yeah?”

Mycroft’s silhouette tossed his head in a way that was painfully familiar. “Yes.”

“Ok.” He shucked off his jacket and jeans and quickly slid between the sheets, keeping his T shirt and boxers on, not wanting to assume. Mycroft didn’t comment but drew the cover up over their heads, cocooning them in the protecting darkness. 

They lay for a while in peaceful silence, their breathing the only sound. John was more than halfway to drowsing when unbidden, a thought surfaced.

“Are you still wearing the-?”

“No.”

“That’s a, that’s a shame. I think green’s your colour.”

There was a reluctant snort of amusement at that. It was uncharacteristically human noise. “Sorry to disappoint.”

Something unexpectedly painful squeezed within his chest. “Oh come off it you daft bugger,” he said, “you haven’t…” and running out of words reached out and pulled Mycroft into his arms.

 

* * *

 

“You are a trifle overdressed for what I have in mind,” Mycroft observed some minutes later.

Since one of Mycroft's hands had just inveigled its way beneath the waistband of his shorts and the other was occupied in caressing across his back, John couldn’t help but feel that this was a technical rather than substantive complaint but he was too busy investigating the notch below Mycroft’s jaw to raise a formal objection. The skin beneath his lips was smooth and satiny.

"What do you have in mind?"

"I hardly like to say." A hand tugged at his boxers.

“Hm,” said John, lifting his hips. His mind boggled at the possibility that there was any kind of sexual act that Mycroft would consider too depraved to voice. “Whisper it in my ear then.”

So Mycroft did.

And it said a lot, John thought later, that it wasn’t the strangest part of the entire affair that Mycroft’s deepest darkest desires involved nothing more or less complicated than wordless fumbling in the warm dark beneath the bed clothes, John riding up against one long lean thigh while Mycroft gripped his hips and held him and urged him ever onwards.

He wasn’t complaining though. Not at all


	5. Chapter 5

“I can go again in a bit,” he said into his pillow, some time later.

“How very flattering,” said Mycroft dryly.

John shrugged. It wasn’t boasting; half an hour and he’d be good for round two. “Bet I can get you going too.”

Mycroft didn’t answer at once but slid down the bed so they lay parallel and pulled John across his chest. He grumbled for show, but let himself be pulled readily enough, settling down as Mycroft began to slowly comb his fingers through his hair. Smooth chests were, he conceded sleepily, probably more comfortable to lie upon, though he felt a pang of regret for the missing thicket.

“It’s been a year, John,” said Mycroft, breaking into his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he said. 'Course it had. A year since Sherlock's fall. Twelve long months. That had been why he had been down in Vauxhall. Hunting for distraction. Trying not to think too hard.

“Your security status has been downgraded to low risk.”

“I’m at low risk or I am a low risk?”

“Mm.”

“Mm,” he repeated. “What does that mean: mm?”

“It means, among other things, that we want our phone back.”

He opened an eye. “Then how are people going to call me?”

“There is a thousand pounds on the bedside table,” said Mycroft, with some of his usual tartness. “Think on it. Perhaps a solution will occur.”

“I’ve never wanted your sodding money.”

“I know you haven’t," Mycroft's tone softened. "Take it anyway. Indulge me.”

Thwarted, he chose a different tack. “But I like that phone. Took me ages to figure out how to use it.”

“You are more adaptable than you credit. You will manage. I have faith.”

He harrumphed at that, but let it go. A new phone wouldn't kill him he supposed and a reduced security status was probably a good thing.

Mycroft’s thoughts had also drifted, albeit in a rather different direction. “Do you remember your first time, John?”

“Yep,” said John. “Jenny Bailey. We were on a school trip to the Natural History Museum. She found an unlocked store room and we did some independent research.” He grinned. Come to think of it that had set the tone for a number of later exploits.

“Charming,” said Mycroft politely, “but I was referring not to your first sexual encounter but to your first _grande passion_.” He pronounced it with a perfect Parisian accent, naturally.

“Oh,” said John, his smile faded. “Well that was a bit later, of course.” Then, because he was good enough a doctor to know when someone wanted unburden themselves,“How about you?”

“Ah,” said Mycroft and for a while said nothing more. “Well, that was all a terribly long time ago now. They were a family friend, a few years older than I.” His fingertips found their way, perhaps coincidentally, to the short hair on the nape of John’s neck. “In the army.”

“What happened?” said John. He had an inkling.

“The Falklands,” said Mycroft. “I could confide in no one, of course. I was still a few years shy of twenty-one. My health suffered rather as a result.”

“No one knew?”

“Things were very different back then. Sherlock guessed. Mummy, I think, had an idea.”

“That sounds…difficult,” said John. He couldn’t imagine a young Sherlock being the most sympathetic of siblings.

“ _Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori_ ,” said Mycroft without emotion or inflexion. “Feeling is not always an advantage.”

“So. What does that mean? You dedicated yourself to a lifetime of Government work instead?”

“Oh, it has had its perks,” Mycroft indicated the flat, the Thames, with a languidly waved hand.

“Hm,” he said. He liked the Thames too, but he wasn’t sure it was adequate substitute for all human contact. “So what now then?”

“Now? Well now I was thinking of taking a little nap.”

“No, not _now_ , now.” said John with more force than clarity. “Now.”

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “ _Now_. Yes. Well what do you suggest?”

“Well I’m a low security risk. You’re of age. We could. I don’t know…” What did men of their age do? “Meet up?”

“'Meet up?'”

“Yeah, you know,” and then in response to Mycroft’s increasingly perplexed silence, “see each other? Date?”

“John. You are a thrill-seeking ex-soldier on short fuse and I, it must be admitted, am a rather staid and set in my ways civil servant.”

“Bollocks are you,” he muttered. “You’re the most dangerous man I’ve ever met.”

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” said Mycroft tranquilly. “I am also, in case it had escaped your notice, male.”

“Yeah,” he said and screwed up his courage. ”About that. The thing is, Mycroft you see, is that I’m not actually straight.”

The pause that greeted this went on for longer than he deemed really necessary. He was just about to voice a protest when Mycroft threw back his head and roared with laughter, his chest shaking so hard that John was bumped from his resting place and deposited in a heap back onto the mattress. “Oh my dear John,” Mycroft said when he had recovered sufficiently to speak, and leant over to kiss him on the temple. “Congratulations. You have joined the ranks of the officially bisexual. We must buy you a special badge and your subscription to _Ideal Home_.”

“Oh piss off,” he muttered. “It’s not a minor thing you know.”

“I know,” said Mycroft and sobered. “Forgive me.” He gathered John back up, replaced him on his chest, and resumed ruffling his hair.

“I should think so too,” he said but the apology had placated him and the caresses were soothing. He was drifting off to sleep when he realised Mycroft hadn’t answered the question. He doubted it was an accidental omission. “So was that a yes then, or a no?”

Mycroft’s hand paused fractionally. “I am very fond of you John,” he said eventually, “but I think we both know that you would not have suggested it were Sherlock still alive.”

John gave it serious, if sleepy, thought. Living with Sherlock hadn’t been conducive to any kind of long term relationship, let alone one with Mycroft. He couldn’t imagine trying to balance the two of them; there simply wasn’t enough space in any one life. “Well no,” he said. “But he’s not and we are and you can’t keep living in the past, you know.”

Mycroft sighed. “You’re right of course and I appreciate your candour. But still, I’m afraid I must decline.”

“Does it matter to you that much?”

“I find,” said Mycroft, “much to my surprise, that it does. I wish that it didn’t.”

“Oh.” It wasn’t the first time he’d been turned down. He doubted it would be the last. It was surprising how much it still stung. “Do you want me to go?”

“On the contrary,” Mycroft’s arms tightened perceptibly, “I would like very much for you to stay.”

He should leave, but the bed was comfortable and he was tired and it was pleasant to lie in someone's arms, even if it was only for a little while. “All right.”

“Good.”

Mycroft drew up the covers around them and settled down for sleep. John lay listening to sound of the steady heartbeat, deep beneath his ear.

“Mycroft?”

“John.” Dry once more. Caught between annoyance and amusement at being disturbed.

“Why no pocket watch?”

“In weather such as this, when their ventilation system has broken, even the most conservative of Ministries will concede that a three piece suit is not mandatory wear.”

“Right. No waistcoat; no pocket watch.”

“Well it can be carried in a jacket pocket, of course, but it does tend to spoil the line.”

"You,” said John, “are a shameless dandy,” and fell asleep before Mycroft could reply, determined to have the final word on something for once.

 

* * *

 

They never did get around to turning the light back on. But later, through patient coaxing and skilful application of fingers and tongue, he did have the opportunity to see Mycroft arching in unselfconscious pleasure over the bed sheets, the orange street lights casting tiger stripes across his skin. And later still, when Mycroft returned to bed with a glass of whisky and a slightly sheepish smile, he did some arching and crying out of his own. As boyfriend experiences went, he thought they did pretty well.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the shower awoke him.

“Leaving already?” he said as Mycroft emerged fully dressed from the bathroom in a cloud of fragrant steam. He stretched, feeling the pleasant pull and tug of well exercised muscles.

“Early morning meeting.”

“What requires meetings at this time of day?”

“The Olympic opening ceremony, apparently.”

“Oh,” he digested that. “Do you think you could get me-”

“No I do not,” said Mycroft but he softened the words by coming to sit on the bed while he fastened his cuff links. His ring was still missing, John saw, and the pale notch where it had rested had almost faded away. He wanted to ask where it had gone, and why, but he wasn't sure how to phrase it. He was still pondering when Mycroft leant over and pecked him, unexpectedly, on the cheek. “Goodbye, John. Help yourself to breakfast.”

“Bye," he said and watched as Mycroft busied himself gathering up briefcase, raincoat and wallet. "Will I see you again?”

“In due course, perhaps. But not in the short term, no. And not like this.”

“Right," he said and then without really intending to: "What was this all about Mycroft, really?”

There was a long pause. Mycroft stared out over the river, apparently fascinated by the view. John felt his eyelids begin to droop.

“I think,” Mycroft said eventually, “that perhaps it was something we both needed to get out of our systems.”

“Has it worked?” said John and lay listening to the soft hum of the air conditioning waiting for a reply. ”Mycroft?” he said, when there was no response but when he opened his eyes the light dancing across the ceiling was pink-tinged, the early morning sunshine scattering reflections across the water, and he was alone in the flat.

Foraging in the kitchen, he found teabags, bread and butter and in the fridge milk and a carefully sealed box containing a dull looking black lump, two large mahogany eggs and a scent he couldn’t define, more sensation than smell, something intense and mysterious and earthy.

They were the best scrambled eggs in the world. He ate them straight from the pan, standing naked on the balcony, feeling the morning breeze on his skin. Then, when they were done, he showered, dressed and went out to see what the day would hold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read and commented; I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> This series is now complete.


End file.
